Ciao, CrespoI speak Italian to my dog.
There are advantages to this. When we are in the park, I can send admonishments and encouragements dogward, reasonably secure in the notion that the other dogs will ignore me (there is always some chance that my dog will join them in this, but that is the doggish way, sometimes). This behavior gets some attention for me, too, but I can carefully state that, no, I only speak the language with my dog, making me a mystery. Occasionally, the old men playing Scopa at the little table outside the cafe mistakenly follow my commands.
I think the dog does not mind any of this, although I have nothing to judge it against, as I never speak to the dog in any other language. When the dog has behaved poorly, I can dip into the lyrical fire of the hot coasts. When the dog is the angel I know the dog aspires to be, the dog is bathed in soft vowels. The dog soaks those up, eyes shining with light.
The problem with this is that I neither speak Italian nor own a dog.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.